Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  July 29, Evening

  “Where the hell did they go?” Pearson asked.

  McFadden shook his head. A few minutes before, fire from Federal skirmishers had been smacking into the ground all around the small depression in which they had been sheltering. Now the fire had abruptly ceased and, carefully poking their heads up over the rim of the hole, they could see no enemy. There had been a cacophony of shouted voices from the other side shortly before, which conceivably had been the voices of officers ordering their men to retreat.

  “Lieutenant McFadden!” Collett called. He was behind the cover of a tree about twenty yards away. “Do you see anything?” His tone indicated that he still took a sort of amused pride in calling McFadden by his new rank.

  “Nothing, Major,” McFadden called back.

  Collett inquired of the rest of the men and received the same reply from everyone. He began barking out orders. Very carefully, the Texans emerged from their cover and warily stepped forward, ready to drop back onto the ground at the first sound that might indicate the presence of an enemy. It was possible, after all, that the Yankees were luring the men of the regiment into an ambush.

  Forming a rough line in skirmish order, with gaps of several yards between each man, the 7th Texas began slowly edging forward. McFadden guessed that the other regiments of Granbury’s Brigade were doing the same on either side of them. Beyond that, McFadden wouldn’t venture to guess what was happening.

  The last two days had seen constant skirmishing with the Yankee picket line, which the enemy had pushed out several hundred yards in advance of their fortified positions. Since moving back onto the front line from their temporary hiatus, the Texans had lost three killed and several wounded in these low-level fights. The skirmishing had never amounted to a full-scale battle and the regiment had not been called on to participate in any full-scale assault on the enemy line.

  In the meantime, the 7th Texas had been reorganized to take into account the heavy losses in officers and men it had sustained at Peachtree Creek. Four companies had been abolished and their men incorporated into the remaining six. McFadden, with his new rank, had been given overall command of three of these companies, including the Lone Star Rifles. The other three companies were now under the command of Lieutenant William Huff, who had been promoted and brought in from another regiment.

  The biggest adjustment McFadden had had to make was getting used to having an officer’s sword tied around his waist. It was always hitting against his foot, which he found very annoying. He also had been required to trade in his Enfield rifle for a Colt Navy revolver. Although he could now fire six shots without reloading, he was finding the pistol difficult to operate and had not yet fully mastered the reloading process despite many hours of practice. He had asked Collett for permission to continue using his Enfield rifle but had been turned down. It would not have been proper for an officer to use a rifle, Collett had explained.

  The sun had vanished over the western horizon, but the twilight continued to glimmer. Diffused by branches of the thick pine trees that surrounded them, it illuminated the area in almost frightening grayish light. With the disappearance of the sun, the temperature began to drop and, as an hour passed, it gradually became almost pleasant.

  “Something up ahead, Lieutenant!” one of McFadden’s comrades whispered harshly. “Looks like a trench line!”

  The men tensed, quietly taking cover behind the nearest trees and aiming their Enfields forward. McFadden strained his eyes and was able to make out through the underbrush the unmistakable sight of a line of prepared fortifications, complete with a trench, parapet, head-log, and abatis. But there was absolutely no sign of the enemy. All was silence.

  Using hand signals, Collett ordered two men to move forward stealthily. Private Thompson and Corporal Anderson, two men with a reputation in the regiment for being absolutely unshakeable, crawled ahead. McFadden said a silent prayer for the two brave men as he watched them go, for he expected the Federal trench line to erupt in musket fire at any moment. If that happened, Thompson and Anderson would have no chance to survive.

  “Nobody here, Major!” Thompson called after crawling up to the parapet and peering beneath the head-log. “They’ve lit out, looks like!”

  “Okay, let’s go in,” Major Collett said. The Texans strolled forward, climbed over the parapet and down into the enemy trench. Rather to their surprise, they found that the enemy had left behind haversacks half full of rations, canteens filled with water, and even a few muskets. They were strewn about haphazardly.

  Collett looked around with the measured stare of an officer. “Looks like they left in a hurry.” Some of the men stopped for a moment to stuff hardtack into their mouths, while the regimental quartermaster quickly began collecting the discarded muskets and other useful supplies to send back to the rear.

  Suddenly, the sound of a distant but clearly enormous explosion startled the men of the 7th Texas. It came from the direction of the Chattahoochee River, perhaps another mile away. McFadden felt the ground shake beneath his feet. Barely two minutes later, there was another explosion of roughly the same size from the same direction.

  “The Yankees are blowing up their ammunition!” Collett shouted. A shiver of excitement ran through the men, for everyone knew that the Yankees would only be doing this if they were evacuating the south bank of the Chattahoochee.

  All was suddenly activity. General Granbury rode up and had a hurried discussion with Collett. All pretense of stealth vanished at once, with buglers blaring their instruments and drummers pounding their drums. The 7th Texas formed up and abandoned their skirmish order in favor of a battle line. The rest of the brigade formed up tightly on either side. Less than ten minutes after the sound of the first detonation, the order to march was given and the brigade stepped off.

  “What’s going on, Jimmy?” Montgomery asked, apprehensive.

  “If the Yanks are abandoning their hold on the south side of the river, we can bet General Johnston wants to catch as many of them as possible before they get away. Probably scoop up some loot, too.”

  “I don’t much like the idea of fighting in the dark. I’d just as likely trip on a rock and break my neck as get shot by a damn Yankee.”

  As they moved forward, the sound of scattered musketry was heard all around them, as well as confused shouting by men with Northern accents. McFadden judged from the sound of the firing that other Confederate units were advancing to the river as well. He feared that his unit might be struck by friendly fire in the confusion and darkness. He called out for his men to be careful on their flanks. Somewhere ahead of him, McFadden could see the yellow flickering of large fires, although he could not tell what was burning.

  An hour after leaving the abandoned enemy trench, having gone about a mile, the men of the 7th Texas emerged from the thicket onto the banks of the Chattahoochee River. Off to their left, only a few hundred yards away, they saw a surrealistic line of flame spanning the entire width of the river. McFadden quickly realized that it was one of the pontoon bridges, set ablaze by the retreating enemy. Presumably there had not been enough time to dismantle the thing.

  All around them were the shattered remnants of a disorderly retreat. Broken wooden crates spilled their contents out onto the muddy ground. Several horses, their owners long gone, stood about in confusion, waiting for some human to tell them what to do. Small fires burned every hundred yards or so, as the withdrawing Federals had clearly made some effort to destroy the supplies which they could not take with them.

  On the bank, directly in front of the 7th Texas, Yankee troops were jumping onto half a dozen small boats and frantically trying to push off for the northern bank.

  “Stop, you bastards!” Collett shouted, waving his sword. “Stop or we’ll shoot!”

  Without being told, McFadden’s men raised their muskets.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” one of the Yankees shouted. They continued pushing their boat into the river, and two oars ap
peared on either side.

  “Fire!”McFadden yelled. Instantly the tiny flotilla of small boats was peppered by musket fire from dozens of men. Many Yankees were hit and fell into the river or onto the bank with pathetic yelps of pain. The men in two of the boats stopped rowing and held up their hands, but the other four gamely continued on and were soon out of reach.

  “Put out those fires!” Collett was yelling. “Stop shooting at the boats and put out those fires! We’ve got to save all the supplies we can!”

  Their commander was gesturing frantically to the piles of wooden crates that continued to burn, illuminating the darkness with a sinister yellowish glow. Men grabbed discarded blankets and uniform coats from the ground and began beating at the fires.

  “Row, men! Row!” a dark voice was shouting from one of the boats.

  The sound of the voice caused McFadden to freeze. Everything else suddenly became entirely unimportant while his brain processed the awful memory. He had heard the voice before, years earlier, in the desert of New Mexico. The sound of it was burned into his brain as if from a branding iron. Instantly, McFadden’s heart began pounding with the force of a steam engine. He jerked his head to the sound of the voice. McFadden could see the man’s face against the yellow glow of the fires on the riverbank. Even from a distance, he could see the mark on the man’s left cheek.

  It was Cheeky Joe.

  He looked up and saw McFadden gazing at him in shock. McFadden was certain that he could see recognition in the man’s eyes. For one endless moment, the two men stared at each other across the waters of the Chattahoochee River.

  McFadden raised his revolver and fired, but the bullet passed harmlessly through the side of his enemy’s uniform coat. He fired again and again until all six bullets had been expended. Joe stood tall in his boat, as if welcoming the fire and yet remaining unharmed. McFadden thought he could hear sinister laughter coming from the boat.

  “Shoot him!” McFadden screamed to his men. “Kill him!” But his men had all put down their weapons when they had been ordered by Collett to put out the fires.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, McFadden?” Collett called out. “Forget the boats and help us put out these damn fires!”

  “No!” McFadden cried. He pulled out another set of cartridges and struggled desperately to reload his pistol. He wished more than anything that he had his Enfield rifle, which he could have reloaded in fifteen seconds and which had a much longer range than his pistol. He thought about picking up one of the rifles set down by one of his men, but that would have taken several seconds and he would have had to seize an ammunition pouch off someone, too.

  His hands fumbled and the cartridges fell out onto the river bank. McFadden glanced up and saw the boat quickly vanishing into the darkness in the middle of the river. He screamed in rage at his powerlessness. The boat faded from sight. For a few haunting seconds, the sound of Cheeky Joe’s laughter seemed to echo across the Chattahoochee River.

  The remainder of the regiment was busy putting out the fires. A few enterprising soldiers tried to organize a water line from the river using a few buckets they had found lying around. Although most of the Union crates went up in smoke, they were able to salvage some boxes of food, horse tackle, and various other kinds of useful gear.

  McFadden ran over to a wounded Union soldier laying on his back at the water’s edge. He grabbed the collar of his uniform coat and yelled into his face.

  “What regiment are you?”

  The man winced against the pain and did not immediately answer.

  “Tell me! What regiment are you?” McFadden drew his sword and put it up against the man’s throat. “Tell me what regiment you are or I’ll kill you!”

  “Lieutenant!” Collett shouted in surprise and alarm. “What the hell are you doing?”

  McFadden ignored him. “Tell me!” McFadden screamed at the Yankee soldier. The fiery rage in his eyes was more than enough to terrify the bluecoat.

  “118th Ohio,” came the meek response.

  McFadden shoved the Yankee painfully back down onto the ground, causing him to cry out in pain. He sheathed his sword and turned away from the river, raising his hands to the sides of his head. He screamed forth a primal yell of pain and hatred that the rest of the regiment found frightening. Then, he fell down onto his knees.

  “Go about your business, men!” Collett shouted to the regiment. They finished putting the fires out and began the task of collecting anything usable from the wreckage. They glanced over continually at McFadden, curious looks in their eyes.

  Collett walked up to him and cautiously put his hand on McFadden’s shoulder.

  “Who was that man, James? The one you were shooting at?”

  McFadden waited a few moments before replying. The answer, when it came, was simple.

  “It was the Devil, Major. God help me, but it was the Devil.”

  Chapter Nine

  July 31, Morning

  Lincoln nodded to Major Eckert as he entered the telegraph room, but said nothing as he hurried over to the drawer of telegrams and sifted through the first several sheets. He knew what he was looking for, as the rumors of the disaster which had befallen Grant’s army in front of Petersburg were on the lips of every person in Washington that morning.

  Lincoln’s face glazed over with disappointment and frustration as he read. The enormous mine which Grant had told him about during his recent visit to City Point had finally been set off. According to the reports, the initial phase of the operation had gone well. The mine had blown a gigantic gap in Lee’s fortifications, killing hundreds of rebel soldiers instantly. But everything thereafter had gone disastrously wrong, with the local commanders displaying an unprecedented level of incompetence.

  Lincoln’s despair deepened further the more he read. The explosion had formed an enormous crater, into which the assault force had inexplicably charged. There, they had become trapped. Enemy troops massed along the rim of the crater and drenched the Union soldiers with concentrated musket and artillery fire, inflicting heavy casualties. Unable to make any headway, the attack had been called off. It seemed to have been less a battle than a slaughter.

  Reading another telegram melted Lincoln’s sadness and replaced it with anger. A division of black troops had been part of the operation and by all accounts had fought with great gallantry. But numerous eye witnesses had reported that hundreds of the black soldiers had been killed in cold blood by the rebels as they had tried to surrender.

  “Another disaster, Mr. President,” Stanton said. The Secretary of War had quietly entered the room while Lincoln had been reading.

  “Worse than a disaster, Edwin. A disaster caused by incompetence. The fortunes of war may occasionally present us with unavoidable defeats, but to lose so many brave men and squander such an opportunity because of the ineptitude of our own officers?”

  “Apparently, the commander of the assault force didn’t even lead his men into action. He remained behind the lines in a bombproof shelter, drunk as a sailor.”

  “It’s like the girl left us the key to her hotel room and we were too stupid to notice it.” Lincoln angrily shoved the telegrams back into the drawer and slammed it shut. “Defeat is one thing. Disgrace another.”

  “It is very bad, Mr. President. I wish I could put it some other way, but I cannot. Combined with the final evacuation of the last of our troops from the south bank of the Chattahoochee, I can’t help but see nothing but gloom on our military horizon.”

  Lincoln sighed. “Less than two weeks after the catastrophe at Peachtree Creek, we have experienced yet another humiliating defeat. Imagine how the public will react. The Democrats are making the case that we are not fit to run the war. Any Ohio farmer or Pennsylvania shopkeeper who reads the newspapers could be forgiven for agreeing with them. Our chances in November seem to be slipping farther away every day.”

  Suddenly, Lincoln felt a wave of grief and guilt sweep over him. The fact that his first thought upon heari
ng the news of the battle near Petersburg was one of politics stabbed at his heart. He tried to put himself in the place of the terrified soldiers crammed into the bed of Peachtree Creek or the crater at Petersburg, panicked and unable to flee as the rebels standing above them slaughtered them like sheep. Unconsciously, his hand went up to his head, as if he were nursing a horrible headache.

  “Mr. President? Are you all right?”

  “As well as can be expected, Edwin. The war is eating me alive, but I must press on.” Stanton grunted, and Lincoln continued, steeling himself to ask the next question. “How many men did we lose?”

  “About four thousand, Mr. President.”

  Lincoln nodded. Part of his mind did quick calculations as to how the loss of four thousand men would affect the military situation around Petersburg. Another contemplated the fact that the mothers and wives of four thousand men would soon be getting the telegram they all so dreaded to receive.

  “You’ll send me a full report when you have all the information?”

  “Of course, Mr. President. And while I hate to give you more bad news, I have to report that the Pennsylvania town of Chambersburg was burned by rebel cavalry yesterday.”

  “I heard about that. I assume it was Early’s men?”

  “It was.”

  The President nodded. “The Democrats will now begin attacking us by saying that we cannot even defend our own towns and cities. And they will be correct.”

  “I also have the response from General Grant regarding your proposal that Indiana troops be furloughed home in order to vote in the upcoming elections.”

  Lincoln’s eyes lit up briefly. Indiana was one of the few states that did not allow its soldiers to cast absentee ballots, and acting on the assumption that serving soldiers would be more likely to support the Republican ticket than that of the defeatist Democrats, Lincoln was hoping that a sufficient number of Indiana troops serving in the army might be allowed to return home briefly in order to vote. Lincoln felt that Indiana would be one of the most closely contested states in the election, where even the swing of a few thousand votes might decide the outcome. The more troops from the Hoosier State that could be temporarily sent home to vote, the better.